The Powerful Play Goes On: Part III
by Frankincense Pontipee
Summary: Somewhere between the cake, the crime drama, the books, the post-its, the mortal enemies and the hot boys, a whispered legacy of words and ideas will change two lives forever. A modern Northanger Abbey/Sense and Sensibility crossover.
1. Chapter 1

**If you haven't read them yet, I would seriously recommend first reading _Parts I_ and _II_ which are reasonably easy to find on my profile page. If you haven't read them for a while because I'm the world's slowest updater, everyone does a lot of _explaining_ in this chapter, so you should be OK. **

**If you _really_ want to understand what's going on, your life also might be easier if you go and read _The Dumbest Thing,_ but no one has that kind of time, so feel free to pretend and say you did. **

* * *

**Part III**

 **Chapter One:**

Charlotte Marceline Lestrade Jennings Palmer's absence from Barton Park had been notable largely for the silence left in her wake, the distinct lack of people wearing pearls whilst also wearing wellingtons, and the absence of evenings in with macaroni cheese, a lot of wine, and all the gag reels in her dvd collection. That, and the lack of people who cut to the chase. She shook her head utter confusion, and smacked the bar with her hand, frustratedly.

"What the hell has been going on?"

* * *

 _Four days previously:_

It was dark by the time they left the boathouse. Dark and clear and frosty. Cate's breath clouded immediately, but that might have been something to do with the massive sigh of exasperation she uttered as soon as the door was shut.

"I don't believe them."

"It's fine," said Harry, mildly.

"It's really not."

He spread open his hands. "I am unscarred."

"Maybe physically," she said, sitting heavily on the cold porch steps in front of him, "but who knows the toil it will have taken on your psyche? You'll probably be in therapy for years."

He grinned. "I really won't. Not if my family hasn't put me there yet."

She groaned. "But they were awful."

"They care."

" _Loudly."_

He laughed and hunkered down in front of her. "Catie, sweetheart, if they are so protective of you to grill me like that, I can only imagine that they think you're pretty great, which only goes to affirm everything that I have thought since meeting you."

"But all the stuff about Marc," she groaned. "Brandon practically waterboarded you."

He smoothed her hair back from her face. "I'm pretty sure that waterboarding is considerably worse than your brother just asking several questions."

"With a tone," she said. "Such a tone of...you know...crazy."

He smiled.

"I know," she said. "I'm sounding just as crazy as them."

"Just a tiny bit."

Cate grimaced. "I'm just pretty sure that you're about to notice that I'm totally not worth it."

His gaze roved around her face, and then he kissed her, decisively. "Nonsense," he murmured, and moved to sit next to her. "So what's the deal with Marc?" he asked. "Why does Brandon care so much?"

She yawned, the long day finally catching up with her. "Because he's in love with Mari, who's in love with Marc, who I think loved her back, but has now disappeared on some academic trip to America, and hasn't been heard from for six months."

"Six months?"

"Mmmm."

He pulled her closer, her head ending up comfortably on his shoulder, but he was silent.

"Harry...?"

"You and I should probably draw up some kind of charter on how we discuss our friends, and how much we should...not share about what we know."

His tone was careful, which excited her suspicions far too much. She turned to face him, his arms still close. " _What_ do you know? Is there something about Marc that you're not saying?"

He grimaced. "This is why we need the charter."

"Harry!"

He sighed. "OK," he said, and sighed again. "Can you just...there are things in my life that I can't tell you. That I've promised not to say."

"And that's supposed to make me ask _fewer_ questions?"

He smiled, slightly. "Can you trust me to believe that I'm telling you everything you _need_ to know?"

She frowned. "And no more."

He looked pained. "Catie, I wish I could tell you everything. I'm not doing this deliberately, and I'm not under the impression that it's somehow titillating."

Automatically, she smirked.

He rolled his eyes and kissed her again, evenso. "I don't know what's going on with Marc," he said, "and I don't know how far it is my place to tell you everything I've ever known about him, but there are things that you surely...that anyone could find out, and I don't see..."

"Stuff that I could happen to stumble across."

"Yes."

He looked pained, and she took pity on him. "Harry if you're not comfortable doing this..."

"No," he said softly. "No, I don't think Mari being left in the dark all this time is right, and she should at least be able to know...at least have half a chance of talking to him."

"But he's in America. He said he'd be out of contact, and that he was unable to check his university email."

Harry winced.

"Isn't he?"

"Maybe. Yes, probably."

"So how could she get in contact?"

He took a breath. "Facebook."

" _Facebook?"_

He said nothing.

"Harry, we looked before. All of us have separately. He's not there."

He grimaced once more. "Yeah, he is. He's just not under his own name."

Cate's jaw went slack. "And that's not suspicious at all."

He looked entirely uncomfortable. "He did it years ago. And not in a gross, stalkerish kind of way," he added. "It was always just between us friends. There's nothing particularly revelatory there, before you scour it for information, and he definitely hasn't announced anything surprising or...I mean, I didn't even know he was in America until he posted a photo of the Grand Canyon."

"OK."

He sighed, and leaned in again. "We definitely need a charter," he murmured. "This is getting far too confusing."

She rested a palm on his face. "Between just Marc and Ed, you known enough to probably bring about world peace."

"And that's just the start of it." He smiled fleetingly, and pulled her closer.

Cate took a breath. "I know I said about expecting you to turn around and walk out the door, but really," she said, carefully, "I trust you. Tell me what I need to know. I'll trust you for the rest."

She realised afterwards that she should have said it earlier: he kissed her as if she had saved his life. It did not, however, satiate her curiosity. No one could possibly be that grateful if he only had a few juicy facts. There and then, Cate realised that Harry Tilney had depths of secrets that even she possibly hadn't imagined.

* * *

"Happy Christmas. Here's your bloody present."

Ellis looked up from her work to find the light blocked by first, a massive hamper, and behind it, Brandon Moreland.

"Wait," she said, as he turned to leave, and she riffled through the papers on her desk. "Might you be available to do front of house tonight for the Carols?" she asked, a schedule in hand. "That kind of cheery demeanour is _exactly_ what's right to welcome the kids."

His jaw worked for a moment. "I can't. I'm seeing Beth and Kit tonight for..." He trailed off. "And you weren't serious."

She smiled. "No. Are you OK?"

"Fine."

"Because after your display of...whatever that was yesterday..."

He paused. "I thought we had an agreement," he said, tersely.

"I'm not asking about Mari," she said. "I'm asking what happened to make you treat Harry like you did."

He cleared his throat. His jaw worked some more. Had he been holding a pencil, he probably would have snapped it in two.

"Like the _Hulk_ , Brandon..."

"Mari," he said. "It _was_ Mari, and I was angry, and took it out on Harry." He sat, heavily. "Happy?"

Ellis frowned. "What happened?"

"I told you..."

"But _what_?"

He rubbed a hand over his face, and blew out a breath like a grampus. "I'm pleased for Cate," he said eventually. "You know I am. I like Harry, and he is clearly nuts about her, and she deserves to meet someone nice, and I've never met anyone _nicer_ than Harry Tilney, despite his brother." He paused, staring at his hands.

"Brandon?"

"I saw her face," he said. "Cate and Harry weren't even being all that...public-display-of-affection-y...not like Jim and Izzy used to be, but even so." He ground to a halt. "I saw her face." His face, in turn, was devastated. "I couldn't bear it, and Harry was there, friends with Marc, and knowing stuff that maybe would help, and I lost it."

"And you treated him like some kind of war criminal."

His expression turned rueful. "Don't think I don't know how badly I behaved. I don't know if she's in today, but if not I'll go and drop in at home tonight on my way to..." He took a breath, running out of steam. "You know."

"Apologise to her, on your knees, and then maybe arrange a time and date to take them out to dinner."

"Or possibly just pay for _them_ to go out to dinner. I don't like him _that_ much."

Ellis smiled. "She's here."

"You've seen her?" He winced. "Is she angry?"

"I think you'll be OK."

He nodded slowly.

"She told me something about Marc," continued Ellis, carefully.

His head snapped up. "She told you about..." He stopped.

"You knew already?"

He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. "Uh, maybe? I don't know. What did she say?"

She frowned. "She came to give me this," she said, and pushed a business card across the desk.

"Harry's business card?"

"Turn it over, genius."

He gave her look, then frowned. "I don't know what I'm looking at."

"Marc's Facebook username."

His eyebrows shot up. "I didn't know he had one."

She shrugged. "No one did. Harry gave it to Cate last night. After your display in the Boat House."

He grimaced.

"Even more of a reason to apologise."

"OK," he said, begrudgingly. "I'll go and find her now."

Just as he reached the door, she snapped up from her paperwork. "Wait! What did you think she had told me?"

He stopped.

"Brandon?"

He leaned wearily against the doorframe.

"Brandon!"

He turned. Looked at her for a moment, shaking his head.

"Do you know something about Marc? Something about and _Mari_ and Marc..."

He looked pained. "It's not for me to tell you..."

"Crap."

He winced. "I really would if I thought it would help at this point, but it's not my business and, I don't know, I might have got it totally wrong."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Have you?"

He sighed, and silently, shook his head.

"And Cate knows?"

"That was a mistake. I was angry about something, and it just came out."

"Why were you angry?"

He let out a long, exasperated breath. "The usual," he said, eventually. "Mari was upset." He shrugged once more. "I just want her to be happy. I mean," he added, "I don't want _anyone_ to be miserable, but she particularly..." He sighed. "You know."

Ellis shook her head. "She has to move on eventually. She has to know that the world doesn't stop turning just because Marc-bloody-Willoughby doesn't call."

He raised an eyebrow. "Have you moved on?"

She eyed him, carefully. "I thought we had an agreement." He snorted. "No," she said. "Have you?"

He smiled, sadly, and shrugged. "See you around," he said, and closed the door behind him.

Ellis stared at the door for a full minute, lost in thought. "What a freaking mess," she breathed. Then went back to work.

* * *

Two days later, Charlotte and Tom arrived for Christmas bringing with them more snow, a flurry of conversation, and her Grandmother, once more for the holidays.

"Please tell me you have vodka," she said to Brandon, slumped at the bar of the Boat House three hours after arrival. "Gran has been trying to advise me as to how to get pregnant: a conversation I can never un-hear."

Brandon gave her a rare smile, and began to pour.

"But it's fine," put in Tom, "because it turns out, it's all my fault."

"Naturally," said Ellis, accepting a very large gin and tonic from Brandon.

"So what's been happening?" asked Charlotte. "Between my new job and renovating the house and Tom covering work for his Dad we haven't had a moment to wrangle with the internet people and I'm gasping for some Facebook gossip because it turns out, Mum has been too busy stopping Nancy from killing anyone to pay attention to your lives. So what's going on?"

There was a brief a very pregnant pause.

"Oh!" said Ellis, dutifully filling it. "I guess, I don't know...not much really. The Estate's been good, but very busy. We thought we had got some time over Christmas, but then the snow really gave us an opportunity for work..."

"So we all gave up days out of our paltry Christmas holidays to peddle hot chocolate to the masses," put in James, pouring himself a drink where his brother had assiduously ignored him.

"Hey!" said Charlotte, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. "When did you arrive?"

"I've been here a while, sorting out the store room. Good to see you," he said. "How're you doing?"

"Good," said Tom, accepting a drink himself. "The forestry business became Christmas Tree farming this last month which has been mad but kind of fun."

"In a way," said Charlotte drily.

"How about you?" asked Tom. "Where's Izzy?"

"That's right!" exclaimed Charlotte, spinning round. "You're engaged! Congratulations!"

Jim paused. "Yeah," he said. "Right. Not any more."

"WHAT?"

"No," he said, and smiled, nervously.

"What happened?"

He paused again. Ellis raised her eyebrows in question to Brandon, who shrugged, bewildered. "We...uh...realised that we'd be better as friends."

Brandon snorted.

"And then she got on a plane and went to Geneva."

"For a job, or...?" asked Charlotte, frowning in confusion.

"Pre-Christmas skiing holiday."

"She's there now?"

"Yeah. We broke up a week or so ago."

"Jim!" she exclaimed. "I'm so sorry." She wheeled on Brandon. "Why didn't you stop me! Or at least let me know!

He shrugged, nonchalantly. "It's the most I've heard about it so far."

"What? What have you guys been doing all this time? I thought Mari would have been a far better influence on your chattiness. In fact, where is Mari?"

Ellis winced. "Yeah, about that..."

"Please don't tell me..."

"She hasn't been around all that much recently," said Ellis. "Since Marc left he kind of hasn't really been heard of."

Tom sat down with a groan. "What a..."

"Yeah," said Brandon.

"He upped and left and told her nothing?" asked Charlotte, scandalised.

Ellis waved her now empty drink at Brandon. "No, he went on some academic tour of Northern American architecture, I think. It was all a bit vague, which would have been fine but he hasn't been in contact with her, and she doesn't really know what's going on."

"Could we maybe just go and find him and punch him in the face?" asked Tom. "Brandon?"

"Yes."

"No!" exclaimed Charlotte, who turned back to Ellis. "He hasn't been in contact at all?"

"Nope."

"Hell," she breathed. "Maybe Tom's right..."

Tom smirked, self-satisfied. "Didn't he have a friend, or a friend-of-a-friend, or something? Someone who came to the opening" He turned as the door opened. "Oh, Cate might remember!"

"Remember what? Brandon, have you got the kettle on?" she said, unwrapping her scarf, kissing Charlotte's cheek and sinking into a bar stool.

"The guy who came to the Estate Opening last year. A friend of Marc's, I think. Kind of nerdy. Kind of posh."

"Yeah, Cate," said James, smirking. "You remember who that was?"

Cate flushed, and screwed up her face.

"Ed, something," he said. "You said something about an Ed, didn't you?" he asked his wife, who immediately winced.

"Uh, Tom..."

"You mean Harry?" asked Cate, a little too quickly, a little too loudly. "Harry Tilney?"

Tom, oblivious to the suddenly awkward atmosphere, grinned. "Right. Harry. Weren't you working for him? Nearby us somewhere."

"Northanger."

"Right!" he said again. "Doing his garden." He paused, interrupted by James snorting. "How's that going?"

"I was fired."

"WHAT?" said Charlotte, who had disappeared behind her hands, despairing over her husband's unwitting faux pas. She smacked the bar with her hand. "What the hell has been going on?"

"Oh you know," she said easily. "It's the age-old story: man hires girl because he thinks she's a famous millionaire. Man discovers girl is not a famous millionaire. Man fires girl and throws her out into snow storm."

Charlotte swore.

"Is that what happened?" asked Brandon.

"Do you guys _ever_ talk to each other?"

He shrugged once more. "It only happened this week."

"Plus," added James, smirking, "she's been preoccupied these last few days."

Ellis smacked him on the back of the head.

"Preoccupied with what?" asked Charlotte. "What's going on?"

"Cate's..." began James, with a smug helpfulness, quickly interrupted by Cate, who pushed her scarf in his mouth.

"Harry turned up a couple of days ago," she said. "He found out what happened and came to check I was OK, and we talked, and sorted stuff out..."

"And then he _did her garden_ ," said James, picking wool-lint of his tongue.

Ellis smacked him again.

"You're dating him?" asked Charlotte, delightedly. "Cate!"

She flushed a little. "All right," she said. "Keep your pants on."

"Or he'll have them off," added Jim, who then wisely ducked out of the way of Ellis' hand.

"He does know Marc though, right?" asked Tom with impressive singularity. "He came here because of him."

"Right," said Cate.

"And he is friend with an Ed isn't he? I'm not misremembering that..."

"Ferrars," put in Ellis. "Ed Ferrars." She then grimly took another drink from Brandon's hand.

"Right," said Cate again, quickly. "They know each other, but Harry hasn't really heard anything from Marc."

Brandon scoffed. "Nothing besides Facebook."

"Facebook? You've found him?" asked Charlotte as Cate raised her eyebrows at Ellis.

Ellis shrugged. "Harry did. I've given the details to Mari. She can do what she wants."

"What are you expecting?" asked Tom.

Ellis rolled her drink between her palms for a moment. "Realistically?" she asked slowly. "I think she'll torture herself with it."

Charlotte winced. "You think he'll get in touch with her?"

"No," said Brandon, shortly.

"I don't know," replied Ellis, quickly. "Maybe. I just hope that whatever she sends him, he gets back in touch soon. Whatever the response, she needs some kind of answers."

"It's just cruel otherwise," murmured Cate.

"It needs to be short and sharp, like me and Izzy," said Jim. "Clean break is what you need."

Brandon fixed him with a particularly keen expression. "And where are you going tomorrow?"

"Uh...you know...nowhere particular."

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. " _Where_?"

"Well..." He winced. "It's a funny story. Izzy and I had a clean break. Sorted it all out. Walked away. And then she left a message for me last night to tell me what time her flight gets in..."

* * *

"Will you watch where you're going?"

After nearly going flying, tripping over what must be the three-hundredth pair of legs to in one day to ladder in front of him, James nearly lost it.

"It's like some damned Brownie ice-breaker in here," he muttered.

"What did you say?"

The girl who owned the legs which were the proverbial straw on the camel's back, met his eyes with hers. Unimpressed. Eyebrows raised. Drawn together.

"I said…" he began, but ran out of steam too fast. He paused in his mission to get as far away from this place as possible, and sighed. "It was nothing."

"No," she said with a firmness that disclosed professionalism. Or the mothering of toddlers. "You said something. Something about damned cookies."

The girl next to her, assiduously reading her kindle, smirked.

"Brownies," he said. "Like Girl Scouts. You have them in America, right?"

"You were talking about Girl Scout cookies?"

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I was talking about the stupid game when you sit in rows facing each other, with your legs out, and then people have to run across them and not, you know, die."

"Why in the hell were you talking about that?"

He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. "I really couldn't say. I'm sorry for nearly kicking you."

"Nearly?"

He paused again, his jaw working. "Sorry," he said again. "I clearly meant grievously injuring you."

"OK then," she said, then looked back to her phone.

He shook his head, then walked away, careful to avoid any more young, hostile Americans with pens behind their ears and fight in their eyes.

* * *

She discovered at the very moment that a coffee was handed to her and a hand held out for money, that her wallet had been stolen.

"This country," she breathed out, her fight gone in disbelief. "This stupid, stupid…"

He stepped forward. The guy who tried to kneecap her earlier. "We're not all that bad," he said, easily, handing over the money.

"You!"

"Yeah," he said. "You're welcome." He walked away to a patch of wall as yet unclaimed by exhausted travellers with mounds of luggage. He sat, his cup between his hands, his hands between his knees.

She followed, drawn by rage. "You think I should be grateful? I didn't ask you to do that." She towered over him, gesturing wildly, and slopping coffee on his knees.

"And I didn't ask you to do _that."_ He brushed the now stained, damp patches on his jeans, and she deflated again. She looked around, lost, then realised that the only place to sit and even more importantly, to lean, was right in front of her. Right next to the guy. The kneecapper.

"I'm sorry," she said once she was settled. "It's been a crappy day."

"And just got crappier."

"Don't give yourself that much credit," she said. "You're not _that_ bad."

He smiled a little. "I was talking about your wallet."

She swore, grimaced, then began to mutter as she reached to dig in her bag. "Then I guess I should find my phone so I can cancel my stupid cards out of my stupid wallet, because of this stupid country filled with stupid vagabonds…"

"That damn Oliver Twist."

She opened her mouth, except any retort that she might have had died on her tongue as she pulled out her wallet.

"Huh."

"No," she said. "Typical."

"Yeah," he said. "Those stupid vagabonds _not_ taking your wallet. Stupid England with its non-stealing orphans."

"Shut up," she said, and opened it up. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," he said. "Consider it vagabond tax."

She grimaced again. "Seriously. I'm not some freaking damsel in distress. How much was the coffee?"

" _Seriously_ ," he repeated, "I have no idea. A couple of pounds, maybe? It doesn't matter."

She sighed, got up and cross-examined the somewhat alarmed barista, before buying a packet of syrup waffles, sitting down next to him again, and pushing a handful of loose change into his palm.

"You really didn't have to."

She let out a gusty breath, burst open the waffles, and offered him the packet. "I think I did," she said, "not least because I'm pretty sure if my oldest sister was here, she'd have felt the need to apologise for me about seventeen times. Take one," she added, waggling the waffles.

He smiled, then helped himself.

* * *

"So you're going home for the holidays?"

She frowned.

"I'm not going to steal your identity."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes," she said, reluctantly. "Kind of."

"You live here the rest of the time?"

"No. Tennessee."

He raised his eyebrows and tipped his head forward, encouragingly. She ignored him.

"You know, conversation generally flows best when you offer more than just the bare minimum."

"I've given you plenty," she said, settling against the wall more comfortably.

"Plenty of insults and accusations," he said. Then he grinned.

Her mouth twitched. "You want me to bear my soul, but you _don't_ want me to think that you're trying to steal my identity? Or lock me in a room and skin me…"

"Good grief."

She smiled, fleetingly.

"I promise," he said, holding out a hand, "that no matter how many facts of a personal nature that you tell me, I won't lock you in a room and skin you. Or steal your identity. Or anything else considered to be 'immoral and outrageous'."

"That would have been more believable if you hadn't just done air quotes."

He grinned again.

"Fine." She shook his hand. "I live in Tennessee but I was here to see someone, and I am going back to America, but not to my home for Christmas as my parents are visiting my reprehensible younger sister and her husband over the holidays, and I decided that I'd rather put my head in an oven."

He grinned once more. "See," he said. "That wasn't so hard, was it? So where are you going for Christmas, other than the kitchen."

"My older sisters live in Washington. I'm going to go and see them." She sighed, as if exhausted by all the sharing. "What about you?" she asked. "Where were you going?"

He frowned.

"You can ask all the questions but I can't?"

"I was thinking. Keep your pants on."

"You had to think about it?" She tipped her head on one side. "That's not suspicious. Not at all…"

"I was thinking how to explain what is, at best, a strange situation."

"So…?"

"I came to pick up my fiancée…"

She frowned. "That's really not that weird."

"…who I broke up with a week ago, and doesn't appear to have noticed."

Her mouth twitched again. "Might she have noticed better if you hadn't agreed to pick her up from the airport?"

"I assumed she would have made other plans, until I had an answerphone message telling me when and where to pick her up."

"And you came anyway?" Her look was incredulous.

He shrugged. "The weather's hideous. There are snow drifts everywhere, and half these flights are cancelled anyway."

"Tell me about it," she dead-panned.

"There wasn't going to be any public transport down to Devon. I couldn't just leave her stranded."

"That's not normal."

He shrugged again. "It's how she is."

"I was talking about _you_."

"Just add it to your growing list of my character flaws."

"I haven't got a list," she said. "Not on paper anyway."

He smiled.

"If you tell me that she was also the one to break up with you, I'll punch you in the face."

"If that was the case, then it wouldn't be much incentive for honesty."

She smiled a little.

"No," he said. "I broke up with her."

"Not that she noticed."

"Right."

She opened her mouth. Then she closed it again. Then, "can I ask…"

"She was planning on having an affair."

"Planning? But not _…"_

"She told me that she thought it'd be a fun idea if this final Christmas before we married, our gift to each other could be a free pass to do whatever we wanted, whoever we wanted to do it with, no questions asked."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

"And what did you say?"

He looked a little rueful. "I asked if she had anyone particular in mind."

She barked a laugh. "And did she?"

" _She_ laughed."

"Oh, hell…"

"Yes." He rubbed his neck. "Given that I've spent these last few months deliberately not noticing her flirting pretty hard with one particular guy we know…"

She shook her head. "What a…" She swallowed the end of her sentence. "Well," she said. "You know."

"I think I can guess."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "She's from a super dysfunctional family, where if you aren't cheating on one person with another, you're probably not trying hard enough. Maybe that's not fair. I don't know," he said, shrugging again. "At least _most_ people aren't that screwed up."

Her gaze faltered. Her expression froze. "Right," she said slowly, chokingly.

He frowned. "You OK?"

"I…uh…yeah sure, I just…"

"Someone cheated on you."

His revelation dropped like a stone. She flinched. "Yeah," she breathed. "Kind of."

He watched her for a moment, then held up his hands. "You don't have to tell me," he said. "All personal identity theft jokes aside. I won't…"

She sighed and shrugged. "Who gives a damn?" she said, flatly. "It's not like we're ever going to meet again."

He grinned.

"The friend I was here to visit? Wasn't just a friend. But it turns out, he has a wife and kids, so, you know. More fool me."

"What an absolute…"

"Yeah."

"More fool _him_. Are you OK?"

She shrugged again. "I will be. Feeling pretty stupid now, but yeah. I will be. You?"

He smiled again. "Also feeling pretty stupid. I'm pretty sure…" He took a breath. "I'm pretty sure all my family and friends guessed this was coming."

"How have they been about it?"

"Not one 'I told you so', so…pretty extraordinarily restrained."

"Certainly more restrained than my family would manage in the circumstances."

He smiled a little. "I hope they manage it when they hear your story."

She snorted. "Hell, I'm not telling them anything."

"They won't want to know what happened?"

"Dad's not terribly engaged, my sisters are all away, and my Mom only cares if I can trick a guy into marrying me."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Her words."

"Wow."

"Yeah."

He looked at his hands. "I wouldn't think that you'd need to use trickery."

"And I think we've already established that you're not a very good judge of character."

"Hey!"

"Would you like me to call your ex-fiancée to the stand?"

Then he laughed. "Fine. No." And he turned to her. "But I don't think I'm wrong."

And she smiled a little.

* * *

"I've got news."

He woke sharply from a brief doze. "What?"

"News. I've got news."

"Should hope so," he grumbled. "I had time to walk to the far terminal…"

"YOU LEFT MY…" She took a breath. "You left my bags unattended?"

"No. I was…it was whatever. Hyperbulimic."

"Hyperbolic?"

"Right." He stretched. "You have a very piercing voice. Has anyone ever told you that?"

She flashed him a somewhat insincere smile. "Never a one."

"Right…"

"So you've been sleeping while I've been gone," she said, sitting down next to him. "How very productive."

"That, and phoning Izzy."

"Who's Izzy?"

"The ex-fiancée."

"The dysfunctional, crazy ex-fiancée?"

He gave her a look. "I don't have more than one," he said, a little plaintively. "I'm not some Casanova-type."

"I'm pretty sure that's what a Casanova-type would say…"

"You are so…you know?"

Her smile flashed again. "Neither has that been said before. So, the fiancée?"

He took a deep, somewhat exasperated breath. "No," he said finally. "You had news first."

"Well, yeah."

He pulled a face at her. She rolled her eyes at him.

"My flight is back on the board."

"You're leaving the country so soon? What a disappointment," he dead-panned.

"Shut up. What's your news?"

"I didn't say I had any."

The raised her eyebrows, school-marmishly.

He grinned. "Fine. Izzy's not coming. She's going to stay in Geneva at least another week while the snow is so good."

Her jaw dropped. "She's not coming?"

"No."

"And how far did you drive?"

"I don't know. Two hundred miles?"

"I don't believe it."

"You think I'm lying or…"

"I'm incredulous." She waved a hand in front of her face. "This look? Incredulity."

"Oh, OK."

"Seriously. You had a four hundred mile round-trip."

"More like four hundred and fifty by the time I get home again," he mused.

"Seriously? I am at a loss."

"For what? Words? All evidence points to the contrary."

"Shut up. A four hundred and fifty round-trip, totally wasted."

He gave her a look. Then, "I wouldn't say ' _totally_ wasted'."

She frowned. "I…uh…"

He waved a hand in front of her face. "Now that," he said. "That's a loss for words."

And she bit her lip against another smile.

* * *

She stood in line. She showed her passport and checked in luggage, and finally, got her boarding pass. Then she turned to find him still there, hands deep in his pockets, his smile, rueful.

"Well," she said. "I guess this is it."

"I guess."

"It's been…I guess…I wouldn't go right to 'pleasure' but…"

He grinned. "Me too."

"Thank you for not stealing my identity. Or skinning me."

"You're welcome. Thank you for the most entertaining snow-bound airport entrapment I've ever experienced."

"How many have you had?"

"This is my thirtieth."

She shook her head. "You're such a big fat liar."

He grinned. "That's not polite. Your older sister would tell you that."

"She…" She faltered. "She _would_. Did I tell you that?"

"Yeah."

"Your memory is either cute or creepy."

"I was going for creepy."

She smiled, just a little. "OK, then."

"OK."

"Thank you for putting up with me."

He smiled once more. "It was a pleasure."

She wrinkled her nose. "Really?"

He nodded. "Really."

"OK, then."

"Look," he said, determined but uncomfortable. "I know you've had recent bad experiences of two-timing jackasses, and I've still got a fiancée who hasn't realised that she's no longer my fiancée…"

"And who is currently probably eating her weight in Gouda and Toblerones…"

"You've clearly never met her."

She shrugged. "It's what _I'd_ do."

He bit his lip. "Of course."

"Hey!"

"I was trying to say…maybe I could email you sometime?"

She paused. Then she frowned. "What if I don't have email?"

"So you live in a cave?"

"And I'm still not convinced that you're not an identity thieving body-snatcher."

"A cyber body-snatcher?"

"It could be a thing. Sounds like a movie…"

He smiled. "A movie that I would go and see."

"That's not a check in your favour."

"Will you just…" He took a breath, shook his head and grinned. "Fine," he said. "It was nice to meet you…" he said, trailing off.

"You see?" she said, victoriously. "You don't even know my name!"

"Which makes it that much harder to steal your identity."

"You would know…" she said, darkly.

He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. "Fine," he said again. "It was nice to meet you."

"Mary."

"I'm sorry?"

She bit her lip. Then she fished in her pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to him.

"Mary Bennet."

He looked down at the card for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Mary Bennet," he repeated, then he looked up. "James. James Moreland."

"Hi, James James Moreland."

He grinned. "Mary Mary Bennet…it was a pleasure."

"The pleasure was decidedly not mine," she said. And she smiled.

* * *

 **Huge thanks to LJ for reading and proofing and cheering, to Jane Austen for being a freaking genius, and the geniuses who invented Toblerones. Because honestly.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Hi

Dear Mary,

Happy Christmas. I hope you got home safely.

Best wishes,

James Moreland

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Hi

Dear James,

I'm staying with my sister and her husband, whose idea of a perfect Christmas is a vacation-long charades tournament, so I wouldn't say 'home' or 'safely', but thanks for checking.

The fact that you're emailing me and not the national guard makes me assume that you, too, arrived home safely and that you're not currently in a snow bank. I hope you're not also trapped in a charades tournament. It's a living hell.

Regards,

Mary

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Hi

Dear Mary,

Thankfully, my family agreed some years ago that since we all hated charades (aside from Dad, who was over-ruled) we'd never play it again. And we never have.

Do you do the one with films and books and miming in silence, or the one where you get to speak and you act out scenes for each separate syllable of a word?

I mean, both are horrific, but I'm now intrigued.

James

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Hi

I'd never heard of your weird version of charades. So I googled it. And then my brother-in-law saw over my shoulder what I was doing, and made me explain the whole thing. And then he made us play.

And it was so much worse.

I can't tell you how much pain I would inflict upon you right now if I could.

This isn't over.

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: OH COME ON

Have you done enough yet?

My inbox has never been full. I thought its capacity was mainly metaphorical. Or a gentle warning that I should occasionally clear it out.

Spoiler alert: I've never cleared it out.

IT IS NOW COMPLETELY FULL.

I spent three hours clearing emails and unsubscribing from I don't know how many newsletters and updates. I don't know how you did it so fast. No really. Is it possible that you're in the mafia?

That said, I will be coming to you if anyone ever crosses me.

I apologise for the charades debacle. I will from now on pepper my emails with facts that you will in no way want to look up, so removing all chance that you'll get caught on Wikipedia.

Binturongs smells like popcorn.

I'll bet you don't even know what a binturong is, but don't worry: you won't want to find out what I'm talking about anyway.

I hope you had a good Christmas, all charades aside.

In fear and trembling,

James

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: OH COME ON

James,

You are, I suppose, forgiven, though the memory of Charlie trying to plan our series of skits for 'antidisestablishmentarianism' will linger and/or fester.

Mary

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: You're killing me with the festivities...

Dear Mary,

I want to thank you for your newsy account of your Christmas holiday. It's like I was there.

James

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Stalker

Dear James,

I had a magical Christmas that smelled like cinnamon, morning to night.

I drank only eggnog, naturally.

Everything I wore was red, green and gold. And knitted.

It snowed minuscule snowflakes that looked like the snow fairies in _Fantasia._

Christmas miracles abounded. I couldn't move for remarkable happenings.

And I got a puppy. His name is Saint Nick. He can bark _Jingle Bells._

Holiday greeting, and gay happy meetings,

Mary

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Stalker

See? That wasn't so hard.

The brutal sarcasm aside, all I can now think about is a tiny puppy called Saint Nick. Who can bark _Jingle Bells._ My life will not be complete until he is my canine companion. We will solve crime together. It's going to be awesome.

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Stalker

I'm concerned that you might be criminally insane. I've attached a quick and easy test, just in case.

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Stalker

Dear Mary,

There was a mistake with the test. It was a single word document with 'do you want a crime solving canine companion' written in a box, with arrows to 'yes' and 'no', 'yes' leading me to apparently be criminally insane, and suggesting I seek help.

I question the authenticity of your test. I attach a more reliable one for your perusal.

James

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Stalker

Apparently I'm a Ravenclaw.

I'm not sure that there's anyone else in the world that I'd share that ridiculous fact with following that ridiculous quiz, and yet I just have.

I'm concerned that you might have brain-washed me. Is it possible that you drugged me when we met?

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Stalker

Yes. With joy.

Interesting fact: I am a Hufflepuff.

I thought I wanted to be a Gryffindor. Or, you know, a Slytherin. But now I think about it, the Hufflepuffs are _nice,_ with low pressure to be academic but an impressive work ethic, apparently living in the only place in that whole castle that you wouldn't bother hiding something, therefore it's got to be pretty clean and tidy and yet not interesting to the criminally insane, AND it's right next to the kitchens. Constant smell of bread and cake and general pumpkin pasties.

Therefore I'm about to go and throw away everything I own that isn't black or yellow, and then sew tiny badgers onto everything else.

I decided it was the reasonable response.

Jim

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Badgers

I can't believe I'm about to type this but...

...you might be right. That kind of sounds nice.

I mean, all kinds of dumb, but nice.

I'm reasonably sure that my previous job was, to all intents and purposes, the intelligensia Hunger Games. Make one mistake and you'll get a spear through the eye.

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Badgers

Dear Katniss,

Just for the purposes of checking that I'm not one of those people who accidentally maintain a friendship with a psychopath, I feel like I should check something: you didn't _actually_ spear someone through the eye, did you?

Not that I'd tell anyone necessarily. I just want to know before I accidentally set you up to play anger-inducing parlour games again...

Warmest wishes,

Pita Pocket

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Badgers

I know this isn't the point, but there isn't actually someone in the _Hunger Games_ called 'Pita Pocket' is there?

I haven't read it. I was too busy reading Tolstoy.

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Pita Pocket

Mary,

I would have saved you a trip to Wikipedia (do you fear it now following charades-gate? It would have taken you all of ten seconds to check) were it not for the Tolstoy remark.

Now I've decided to leave you dangling. Like a Hunger Games contestant. Over a shark tank. Which may or may not have happened in the books, but you wouldn't know, because you've been too busy reading about miserable Russians.

And don't think I didn't notice that you never confirmed the spear question.

Jim

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Pita Pocket

I, Mary Rosanna Bennet, have never speared someone through the eye.

Should we meet again in person, that statistic might change.

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Pita Pocket

I am less relieved by your reply than I hoped to be.

I know you already think I'm a stalker, so it can't harm me anymore to ask: given our previous conversation about the intelligentsia Hunger Games and you grievously injuring people, where did you actually work?

Jim

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Stalker

The Office of Marco Pelloux, the Governor of Tennessee.

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Stalker

And...?

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Stalker

And it all went very wrong, mainly because I thought I was smarter than I was. More fool me, right?

My older sisters were in politics, and I was planning a glittering career in making and breaking political careers, thinking it would be just as big a deal for my Dad and that I'd be just as successful, if not more. That was until the Governor made a massive mistake and I, in my naivety, fell on my sword believing him that he would make it all OK and I would be rewarded elsewhere. That important people would know what I had really done. He, instead, heaped a couple dozen more coals on my head, and made me totally unemployable.

As far as some people are concerned he might as well have speared me through the eye, such is the contribution I have since made to the world of law.

Feel free to now lay it on me for being such a socially inept ass. It's not like I haven't heard it before.

Happy freaking New Year

Mary

* * *

From: James Moreland

To: Mary Bennet

Re: Stalker

Dear Mary,

I'm not sure that's quite the spirit to start the New Year with, but under the circumstances, I think it's allowed.

I am so very sorry. I had written a couple of paragraphs in support of you, based on my ability to craft a coffin and my large supply of chisels, but I'm not sure it's very constructive. Or helpful. I after all spent the greater part of my Christmas holidays trying to change the subject from my older brother venting his feelings on someone we know, thinking up ways to deal out some pain. Needless to say, he'll never do it, not least because he's a chef. What's he going to do: whisk him to death?

And what kind of person, after winkling your story out of you, would then turn round and lay it on you? What kind of monster do you think I am?

And I don't know if it helps, but you're not the only one who has had their legs taken out underneath them as far as their career is concerned. I've gone through the slightly alternative route of being a total academic failure believing I'll never do anything useful, followed by discovering a love for a craft fostered by an incredible teacher, and finishing with his sudden and tragic death, taking away my teacher, his tools, and the possibility of any career.

I could have made the spear that finished my career. Ironically.

Jim

* * *

From: Mary Bennet

To: James Moreland

Re: Stalker

Dear Jim,

Thank you.

And I'm sorry. You're not a monster, and I'm probably a bit too defensive.

I should have known that a Hufflepuff wouldn't do that.

Best wishes,

Mary

* * *

"What's wrong with you?"

James Moreland slipped into his seat, travel mug in hand, scruffy jaw line present. "Nothing," he murmured.

"Yeah, OK," whispered Cate. "You look _great._ "

He raised an eyebrow, then rubbed a hand over his face. "I overslept," he relented. "I was up late. What have I missed?"

Cate shrugged. "Nothing but Cliff reading aloud from the newspaper about the Christmas events and Ellis sitting on her hands rather than tell him we've got better things to do in staff meetings."

"I'm so glad I got up early..."

"You clearly didn't," she whispered back. "Why were you up so late?"

"Oh you know...just working on the computer."

She frowned.

"Where's Ellis now?"

"Getting projection reports or something. I don't know." She narrowed her eyes. "What were you working on?"

"None of your business.

"Jim!"

"Shhh. She's back."

* * *

"Don't think I didn't notice you arriving late this morning."

Ellis didn't stop typing, nor did she look up, but James paused in his tracks as he tried to slip surreptitiously past the open office door.

"Sorry about that."

She glanced up and smirked, yet still continued to type. "Seeing as you quit before Christmas, I don't imagine I've got many options for disciplinary measures."

"Not many."

"How did your family take the news?"

He smiled wryly. "Mum thought it was the beginning of a slippery slope to another nervous breakdown."

"Jim..."

"It's fine," he said. "She was more concerned about it being a reaction to Izzy than anything else."

Ellis nodded.

"It wasn't," he added. "It's fine."

"OK."

"You don't sound convinced."

She stopped typing, and sat back. "I've got Mari telling me twenty-four hours a day that _she's_ fine. At the same time, she's taking up jogging, not eating properly, and working all the hours..."

"So...becoming you."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry." He grinned, sheepishly. "Probably not my place. I'm not Brandon, despite the similarity of, you know...jawline and...whatever."

She smiled. "It's fine. And I wouldn't be so concerned about Mari if she ate the crap I'm eating."

"She doesn't exist on a diet of Pringles and Nutella?"

"No, she eats actual vegetables. Things that still have a vague resemblance to their original ingredients. "

"Weird."

She smiled again. "Exactly." She paused. "It's not just a jawline similarity, you know."

He grimaced. "I haven't got his receding hairline as well, have I?"

She snorted.

"Ellis," he said, and then paused, before perching on a chair arm. "I...I never thanked you for not blowing your lid over my quitting."

"You didn't quit." She looked up at him, carefully. "As I remember it, I met with you to renew your contract, and you graciously declined, followed by an impressive negotiation of a new free-lance contract."

"Yeah, and you didn't blow your lid over my being a total douche."

She smirked. "I was impressed."

"At my douchiness?"

This time, she laughed. "Over your negotiating! You always bang on about how Brandon and Cate are so much more intelligent and driven that you are, and yet you chose to pull yourself out of the hole you were in, helped us out more than you could ever know, and then had the balls to make a deal for a way forward."

He snorted. "Whoever would have thought Ellis Dashwood would say 'balls'..."

She threw a scrumpled ball of paper at his head. "I've said much worse."

"Ellis..."

"I'm just saying," she continued, "I'm impressed, not annoyed."

"I'm screwing you over."

"You've given me more notice than was necessary, and are staying on to train on the next person, and to cover certain jobs. Jim, I'm really not the one being taken advantage of here...unless you're actually stealing from me."

He smiled slightly. "I was definitely doing that. That wasn't OK?"

She turned back to her computer. "Go away," she said. "I'm done with you. Don't be late again."

"Or what?" he asked from the doorway. "You'll fire me?"

* * *

"Was that Jim leaving?"

Lou deposited a fresh cup of coffee on Ellis' desk, removed the papers stacked on the corner, and then waited, expectantly.

"Ellis?"

"Mmm? Sorry? Jim?"

"Moreland," said Lou, patiently. "Did you know Cate thinks that he met someone over Christmas."

Ellis looked up, frowning. "How did he possibly...I live here for a year and a half and I never meet anyone. How does he do it while the country is entirely snowed-in?"

"He met her at the airport, while he was supposed to be picking up Izzy."

"Why was he...no. I don't care. None of my business." She ran her hands through her hair. "Have you got the report?"

Lou smirked. "Here." She fished it off her pile and handed it over. "You've got Terry at ten, and are supposed to be down at the water mill at twelve."

"Yep," she said absent-mindedly, a pencil clamped between her teeth as began to search the report.

"Ellis, you've also got a meeting at half-nine."

"Mmmhmm. OK."

"Which is now."

She looked up sharply. "What?"

"A meeting. At nine-thirty."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Who with?"

"Your mother."

"Who?"

"Me, darling," said Jill Dashwood, standing in the doorway. "Can I come in? I know it has been a while, but I hoped you might still recognise me..."

* * *

"I've got half an hour." Ellis looked at her watch, then up to her mother's raised eyebrows. "I didn't mean it like that..." she said. "I meant..."

"It's fine, sweetheart. Shall we walk?"

They walked to the first bench by the lily ponds, where a huddle of ducks sat by the banks looking cold.

"You really didn't have to book an appointment," said Ellis, carefully. "You can drop in any time. Or we can talk at home. Or..."

"I know, sweetheart, but that doesn't seem to work out, now does it?"

Ellis winced.

"Between your hours, and all the work you do from home, we just never talk at the moment."

"And then when I am there, you're inevitably off with Diana or...something..."

"I wasn't blaming you, Ellie."

Ellis blew out a sigh. "No," she said. "I was _you,_ for the record, because it turns out, I'm a terrible person." She leaned back against the chilly bench. "I thought you were going to quit all those functions with Diana."

"I was," she smiled, gently, "but she begged me to stay. It turns out she hates them more than I ever did, and needs some other kindred spirit there."

"Or she'll go off keel-hauling people?"

"I do wonder."

"Nancy's more like her than we ever imagined."

Jill smiled. "It would appear so, yes."

"Did you ever apply for any jobs? That one at the doctors'...?"

"Ellis!" she said, looking scandalised. "We've spoken since then, surely!"

"Yes, of course, but not about..." She waved generally. "This. Us. It appears to take a great deal of emotional energy for us to do any more than discuss Maggie's homework or what's for dinner."

Jill slipped a hand through Ellis' arm. "We should change that."

"So what did you want to talk about?"

Jill paused.

"Mum...?"

"Something that may make you wish that we had never talked in the first place."

Ellis frowned.

"John called."

Ellis winced.

"And I've invited him for dinner."

"Mum!"

"With Fifi."

"MUM!"

She grimaced. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, but he's _family_ , Ellie, and we're the only family that he's got left."

"What are you talking about? He's got a _lovely_ wife, and several brothers in law that anyone would be _lucky_ to have, not to mention a _very special_ sister in law..."

Jill snorted. "Be nice."

"This is about as nice as I get at the moment." She grumbled in the back of her throat. "So they're coming to dinner. Any particular reason? A blood letting? Maybe a ritual sacrifice?"

"They have news," said Jill, gently, patting Ellis' arm. "They're on their way to her parents, and thought they could drop in."

"I'll bet Fi's thrilled."

"About as much as we are, yes."

She hung her head. "Fine," she said. "Fine."

"Ellie?"

She let out a long breath. "It's fine," she said again. "I'll get Brandon to make something."

"Brandon?"

"Otherwise it's me or you cooking, and while I might not be overly heartbroken if I killed them with my cooking..."

Jill smiled. "Brandon it is."

* * *

"It's Brandon!" Maggie appeared at the top of the stairs, weighed down with food. "And he's brought enough to feed a whole army."

"What the hell is he doing that for?" asked Mari. "They might get the impression that we want them to stay."

"Oh. Yeah!" said Maggie, dumping dishes on the counter-tops, and peering inside them. "You don't think it'll be too delicious?" She turned to Brandon as he arrived, arms full of pans. "Maybe you should have cooked that risotto again."

"What are you saying about my risotto?"

"Uh..."

"What's that about risotto? You haven't made it for tonight, have you?" asked Ellis, walking in.

"What are _you_ saying about my risotto?"

She smiled blandly. "That it's an acquired taste?"

"It would have been perfect!" said Maggie. "They'd have never come again!"

"Hey!"

"It wasn't _that_ bad," said Mari.

"Thank you."

"Maybe they would have just stopped talking to us."

Brandon gave a bone-weary sigh.

"What _have_ you made?" asked Maggie, comfortingly, as she peered under more tupperware lids. "It doesn't _look_ like risotto..."

"Beouff bourginon," he said, weakly.

"Is that going to be too delicious?" she asked, concerned, turning to Mari. "Might they want to stay?"

"It's not likely with Brandon's cooking."

"You people are Philistines."

"You want a drink?" asked Ellis.

"Hell, yes."

* * *

"John, you remember Brandon?"

"From the opening weekend...yes. How are you?" John Dashwood, in full, gregarious, estate-owning mode, heartily shook Brandon's hand. "It's nice to see you again."

Brandon, who had never been described as gregarious, even on his best day, smiled slowly. "You too."

"I imagine that weekend is now something of a blur to you."

"Are you implying that he was drunk?" asked Mari.

"Mari, darling..." started Jill, carefully.

"No, I...no!" John laughed. "Where did you get that idea from? No, I was implying that it was a busy weekend and I doubt that even Ellis remembers our being there, let alone someone who had never met us before!" He turned to Brandon. "I never meant to imply..."

"You didn't."

Mari raised her eyebrows silently and took a long drink of her wine.

"And are you here with..." Fifi cast between the sisters before landing back on, "Ellis, maybe?"

"No, no, no," said Ellis.

"Flattering."

"I meant," she said with a grin for Brandon, "that he was here to cook."

"You're not staying?" asked John.

"John!" said Fifi, quickly.

Brandon smiled. "No," he said. "Thank you."

"You can," said Mari, just as quickly. "It's not like you're a servant."

Fif raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Of course he could," said Jill, soothingly, "but didn't you say, dear Brandon, that you're off to see your godson tonight?"

"Yes," he said, carefully. "I'm expected for dinner."

"And you had a drink?" asked Fifi.

"I...uh...nothing that wasn't absolutely safe, and even then, Maggie forced coffee on me."

"You can never be too careful," she put in, sonorously.

"And it's no one's business but his," added Mari, icily.

"OK!" said Ellis. "John, can I get you a drink? Fifi? Wine?"

"Wine?" Fifi looked momentarily confused, turning to John. "I..."

"You know," said Mari. "Wine. The elixir of the Gods. Removes all kinds of sticks rammed in all kinds of..."

Ellis stood up so fast that her chair fell over. "OK!" she said. "White? I've got some kind of...what was it Brandon?" she said quickly, dangerously near babbling. "Pinot?"

"I'll go and find something. Mari, could you help?"

She shot him a dangerous look.

"I don't know where the corkscrew is," he said blandly.

Ellis breathed a sigh as Mari left the table. "Right," she said, sitting again. "So."

"You appear to have an extraordinarily relationship with your staff," said Fifi, drily.

"Yes," said John, heartily, "you all get on so well. So harmonious. We haven't quite got there yet at Norland."

Fifi shot him a look.

"Well, we haven't," he said, faltering slightly. "I mean, it's still so early on in our running the estate."

"Of course," said Jill. "And it's probably taking you a while to get used to being the boss rather than the boss's son."

"Exactly," he said, warmly. "The staff's great. Super qualified."

"Particularly Lucy," put in Fifi. "Did you hire her?" she asked Ellis.

Ellis swallowed. "No," she said carefully. "You did. From here."

"Right, of course. I remember. Well she's wonderful."

"I'm glad," said Ellis, teeth clenched. "Brandon? The wine?"

* * *

Fifi put a hand delicately over a glass. "No, none for me."

"I think Brandon opened a white as well," offered Jill. "Would you prefer that?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Maybe something soft? Maggie, what do we have?"

"Water," she counted off on her fingers, "orange juice, chocolate milk and grog."

John grinned. "Grog?"

"You don't know what grog is?" she asked, scandalised. "What kind of hell are you living?"

"Ginger beer," put in Ellis. "It's _Swallows and Amazons."_

John nodded. "Right," he said. "I remember."

"Any of those, Fi dear?"

"I, uh..." She shook her head weakly. "Maybe water? Sparkling?"

"It's from the tap," put in Maggie, blankly.

Fifi stared at her for a second. "Then don't worry."

"It's just a tap! We're not in the back of beyond."

"It's fine."

"But..."

"Maggie," said Jill. "That's enough. Fi, darling, I can run out and get you something else."

"It's really not a problem," she said, weakly. "Don't worry about it."

"Why aren't you drinking?" asked Mari, pointedly, filling her own glass again. "You always have wine."

John snorted. "That makes it sound like you'd think she had a problem."

"Ironically," said Fifi, looking equally pointedly at Mari's glass.

John faltered, just for a second, then laughed. "No," he said, "but it's actually why we're here."

"What is?" asked Maggie. "To fight with Mari?"

"Maggie, darling..." said Jill.

"No," said John, "to tell you that we're expecting again."

"Really?" asked Jill, delighted.

"Expecting what?"

"A baby, Maggie," said Ellis. "Congratulations," she said, turning back to her brother and sister-in-law, who was looking equally nauseous and frustrated.

"Was it a mistake?"

"MAGGIE!"

John barked a laugh. "I'll tell you what, Mags, it was a bit of a surprise."

"John..." put in Fifi, looking more frustrated than nauseous.

"Well, it's the truth," he shrugged. "We wanted to give Xander and brother or sister a couple of years ago, but thought it wasn't going to happen, so stopped expecting it, and then suddenly, Fi was throwing up her breakfast likes there's no tomorrow."

"John!"

"Well..." he began again. "You were."

Mari smirked.

"Fifi, darling, when are you due?"

She took a deep breath. "June," said eventually. "Early Summer."

"Lovely," said Jill. "Congratulations! Does Xander know yet?"

"He's over the moon," grinned John. "We told him last week."

"Lovely!" she said again. "And you're barely showing. I never would have known."

"I'm not the type to let myself go just because of a baby," said Fifi tersely.

"Speaking of which," said John, "Mari, you're looking amazing. Are you on some miracle diet?"

"Just your average cabbage cleanse."

"She running with me," put in Ellis, quickly. "Running more and too busy to eat half the time."

"You are looking much better," conceded Fifi. "It must be the running."

"Thank you," said Mari, lacing her words with sarcasm. "I do so enjoy to be viewed like a piece of meat by my own family."

"Mari..."

"And isn't it totally wrong and stupid to say that because someone is thinner, they look better," asked Maggie. "I read somewhere that it's only old people who think..."

"Alright!" said Jill, standing up. "Dinner must be ready."

"Definitely," said Ellis, standing up so quickly that her chair was in danger once again. "We don't want it to get cold."

"And we don't want to use up all the conversation over drinks," said Mari.

* * *

"I think I need a new family. Can I have yours?"

"Sure. They're pretty weird though. I caught my Mum using a kitten as a paper-weight last night. Coffee?"

"As much as possible."

Ellis sat down on the barstool in the empty Boathouse, divesting herself of gloves, scarf and hat, and groaned.

"Seriously?" she asked eventually. "The worst you've got is kitten paper-weights?"

"That took a while to process."

"I had _quite_ a night last night."

"Right!" he said. "The big family meal. How did it go?"

Ellis shook her head slowly. "I am utterly amazed that we were all still talking by the end of the night."

"That good?"

"I'm going to need caffeine before I can relive it."

Brandon smirked and filled her a mug.

"Thank you," she breathed, and she wrapped her hands around it, drinking in the steam. "OK..."

"You just need to inhale it?" he asked. "You've taken your caffeine addiction to a whole new level clearly."

"I am exceptional."

"I read it on a the toilet wall."

"I'll tell you what," she said, "they liked you."

He poured himself a cup of tea, and sat down on his side of the counter. "They thought I was your servant."

"And my partner-slash-lover, which apparently was a good thing."

"For which of us?"

"That much wasn't clear, but since they were never thrilled about the concept of me and Ed, it might be more of a thank-God-that-she's-off-the-market kind of thing."

He took a long drink of his tea. "You know that we're not actually a couple, right?"

She ignored him. "I was happy to go along with it if it meant that she didn't rub Lucy in my face too much."

"Lucy? Steele?"

"She works for them."

"How did that happen? Weird small world or..."

"I forced her on them in the hopes that they'd give her a job."

"OK..." he said, slowly.

"Fi has taken delight in telling me how wonderful Lucy is. How clever she is. How she's turning things around at Norland. How fascinating Ed and Robbie find her."

"Ed as in _your Ed_?"

"He's not my Ed."

He pulled a face. "And Robbie?"

"Yeah."

"Has he ever found anything fascinating apart from himself?"

Ellis rubbed a hand over his face. "I never knew him that well, apart from avoiding him at John and Fi's wedding and avoiding him when he was here last year."

"That's the adult reaction." He paused. "It went badly?"

She shook her head slowly. "Mari's not herself at the best of times. Add the fact that she has always been antagonistic with Fi, and the fact that she appears to be drinking twice as much as she ever used to, and it was a bloody nightmare."

He winced. "She didn't exactly appear to be trying very hard."

"Unless she was trying to be an utter..." She trailed off, and took a long drink. "It was awful."

"I'm sorry." He paused. "Ellis..."

"The beef was apparently delicious."

"Oh," he sighed, relieved. "Good. You didn't try it?"

"I am, despite your best efforst, still a vegetarian. The beetroot bourginon was pretty great."

"Just great?"

"I don't think it had the same conversation stopping powers as the beef, but it was really nice."

He smiled slightly.

"Thank you. You put up with a lot of crap from family at the best of times."

"Mainly from you."

"Good thing you're apparently totally in love with me."

"Yeah, again, don't want to totally disappoint you here, but we're still not actually a couple."

She shrugged. "Potato, potahto. So can I have your family?"

"Kitten paper-weights and midnight emailing and all..."

"Midnight emailing?"

"You haven't heard Cate's theory about Jim and the mystery Christmas airport girl...?"

* * *

"Jim?" Mary Bennet's face appeared on James' laptop screen, looking entirely baffled.

"Hey! I'd started to forget what you looked like."

She shook her head, as if to clear it. "I sent you a photo two nights ago after you wouldn't shut up not believing that I've been to Disneyland." She frowned. "It doesn't matter. What in the hell are you doing there?"

"In my own house?"

"No I mean..." She frowned. "I was skyping my sister."

"You want me to check under the bed for her?"

"Jim..."

He grinned. "Did you possibly call the wrong person?"

"No, I..." She frowned further. "I called..."

"You called _me_."

"No..."

"Is her name possibly Jillian? Jinnifer?"

"Is that even a name?" she murmured.

"Mary..."

"Jane. Her name is Jane."

"Ah."

"Yeah." She paused and he smiled, slowly.

"You were going to call her?"

She rubbed her forehead, distractedly. "It's her birthday."

"OK. Call me back?"

"I called you by accident."

He smiled again. "I didn't get that at all from the cussing and frowning."

"James..."

"You don't want to talk to me?"

"No, I just meant...you don't have to be polite."

"You think I've been emailing you every night for a month because I'm just being _polite_?"

"The British are famously...you know..."

"I'm not sure we're famously polite so much as up-tight. Or repressed."

"Either way."

"Has anyone ever told you how troubled you clearly are?"

She smirked ever so slightly. "No," she said. "Never."

"Call me back."

"Jim..."

He ended the call, and she frowned once more.

* * *

By the time she called him back, he had a cup of tea in hand and another layer on.

"Did you change?" she asked. "Did you put different clothes on for me?"

"Yes," he deadpanned. "I've spent the last half hour ransacking my wardrobe for the most skype-suitable outfit. I tried lycra but it was just so...you know..."

"You changed."

"I was cold" he said. "The heating went off a couple of hours ago."

"What time is it?"

"Early."

She checked her watch. "It must be...two?"

"Something like that."

"Why are you still awake?"

"This crazy American called me a while ago and I made her promise to call me back."

"I didn't promise anything."

He smirked. "And yet you called again."

"I thought you might be dangerously unstable."

"I never knew you cared that much."

"I don't."

"And yet you took all those _Hunger Games_ quizzes."

Her frown relaxed, ever so slightly. "And I watched _Harry Potter._ "

"You watched the first one. Don't get too cocky. There're seven more to go."

" _Seven?"_

He grinned. "Rethinking this friendship?"

She rubbed her forehead again. "I'm still trying to work out where it even came from. I'm pretty sure you badgered me into it."

"It's what we Hufflepuffs do," he said, solemnly.

She sighed deeply. "And people think I'm a nerd."

"I'm pretty sure that's not the word for it."

She paused and flinched. "Sure," she said.

"Wait..."

"There are no words for what I am...nothing repeatable in polite company..." she said hollowly, twisting her fingers together.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

She shrugged.

He frowned. "Mary, I was going to say..."

"It doesn't matter," she interrupted. "It really doesn't..."

"Genius," he said. "I was going to say _genius."_

She flushed red. "Don't be ridiculous."

"It's really not."

"Jim..."

"You read Tolstoy for fun. You know more of what's in the Bible than most theologians. I'm actually pretty sure that you know more about _any_ subject I could care to name than anyone I could care to meet."

"Jim..." she tried again.

"I've seen your photos," he interrupted. "I went on your website. I went through the whole portfolio. You're amazing at your job."

"I'm really not."

He smiled. "Yeah, you are."

She shook her head. "You're being too nice," she said. "It doesn't feel..." She sighed.

"What?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Delusional? Like you've maybe got the wrong person."

"I haven't."

She laid a hand against her chest. "Mary Bennet?" she asked. "Caustic, dogmatic, inflexible and insipid?"

"I was going to go for mean and grumpy."

"Jim..."

"I mean, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't know how to accurately use most of the words you just used, let alone spell them, but I don't think any of them were true."

"How would you know," she muttered, "if you can't spell them?"

He pulled a face at her. "Did most of them mean _boring_?"

She pulled a face right back. "Boring, mean and grumpy."

"HA!"

"You were two for three."

He made a dismissive sound. "No," he said. "You were just wrong on that one."

"So just stupid?"

"I was going to say _misinformed."_

"That's a nice way of saying stupid. An uptight, repressed, British kind of way of saying..."

"I just called you a genius!" he interrupted. "Why would you think I thought you were stupid?"

"You're British."

"That can't be your reason for everything."

"Watch me."

"This is ridiculous."

"So hang up."

His look became resolute. "No."

"Jim..."

He frowned. "Why are you so determined that we can't be friends?"

She shrugged. "I'm difficult."

"And why," he continued, " are you so determined that if we do fall out, it'll have to be your fault?"

"Again," she said. "Difficult."

"Yeah, again, not so much."

"You don't know me."

"I've spoken to you every day for more than a month. I've known you longer than I'd known Izzy when I proposed."

"I'm not marrying you!"

He grinned. "That wasn't me asking."

"Good thing," she said. "We've only emailed. You haven't had to put up with me like this."

"Like what? With a face?"

She waved a vague hand. "Socially inept," she said. "I'm much more reasonable on the page."

He smirked. "I think I prefer you like this."

"Out of control?"

His smile grew. "Uncensored."

She made a noise in the back of her throat. "You're antagonistic," she said, frowning once more.

" _I_ am?"

"You should be the polite British person I imagine you are, and let me self-flagelate."

"That sounds weird so I'm going to say no, just in case the CIA are listening in."

"You think the CIA are listening in?"

He shrugged. "I don't know what inflammatory things you've said to other people. What bomb threats you might have made."

"I've never made a bomb threat."

"Good. Don't."

"You don't really think you're being bugged?"

"By you?" He grinned. "No. But my sister lives in a general state of thinking she's under surveillance and it rubs off after a while."

"What has she ever done to think that?"

He smirked. "Researched MI6 too many times for the purposes of fanfiction?"

Mary opened her mouth. Then closed it , she smiled. "OK then."

"OK." He settled back in his chair, and took another drink from his tea. "So. What's new?"

* * *

 **Kitten paper-weights were ruthlessly stolen from _You Can't Take It With You._** **Believing yourself to be bugged by MI6 having done too much research was stolen from my own life.** **Just about everything else is stolen from an original idea by Jane Austen.**

 **Thank you for reading and reviewing.**


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